Fame.

By now, I'm sure you've seen it. In fact, you've probably seen it far more times than any normal human being should have to see it in an entire lifetime. What is this "it" I'm referring to? My face. In a mere 48 hours, my face has managed to get itself plastered all over various websites that it should have never, ever ventured: America's Most Wanted, People of Walmart, even 1000uglypeople.com! KIDDING. Kidding. But just incase you haven't been following along with my recent spike in a very, very oddly based fame, here's a quick recap of what the last 48 hours of my life have entailed. What I initially presumed to be a moderately embarrassing, but quaintly hilarious article in a low-key campus newspaper has skyrocketed into an adventure that not even the craziest theory could have predicted.

The Ramblings of the Forty-Eight Hour Fame:
1. The Auburn Plainsman wrote an article on me for being- you guessed it- Keurig Girl. Even though it has over 16000 views and counting, it still came as a complete surprise that...
2. Cosmopolitan (yes you heard me right), COSMO-FREAKING-POLITAN picked up the article. SAY WHAT?! I may or may not have fainted when I saw my face being tweeted to their 1.1 million followers.
3. Shortly after this, other news sites began to discover the story, including The War Eagle Reader, AL.com, and Seventeen Magazine. At this point, I'm rocking in the fetal position on the floor of my room, hyperventilating into a paper bag. It's fine.
4. Keurig reached out to me on Twitter. They want to send me "a surprise." Wut. I don't even know who I am anymore. WHAT IS HAPPENING?!
5. A Cosmopolitan reporter called me. On my cell phone. While I was in class. She asked if she could interview me. For another article. WHAT?1/?!84O239P--93KJ SD!>/?!??.
6.  The Odyssey published yet another article on me. I'm slowly beginning to lose my sanity. Why are people actually reading these things?
7. Cosmopolitan released my interview with them. My face is on the front homepage of COSMO as a "Most Read Story." Sanity= gone. Mind= blown. HOW?!
8. A movement has started to get me put on the Ellen DeGeneres Show. #KeurigGirlOnEllen is actually a legitimate campaign.. I just can't even comprehend what's happening right now. I'm in denial that this is actually real. I'm being Punk'd. Where's Ashton??
9. People all over the world (California, New York, even Bulgaria??) have begun following me on social media, sliding into my DMs, and telling me reasons why they either A) love me or B) hate me. Who are all of these people? How did they find me? Why on earth do they find my coffee addiction so uncannily fascinating??

I literally don't understand how this happened. What is even remotely fascinating about a really weird and awkward college student with an embarrassingly unhealthy addiction to caffeine? How did this same freak even manage to acquire a fan (and hater, lol) base? What is life? I honestly couldn't tell you. One day I'll tell my future children of the olden days when their mother was a world-famous celebrity, with stories of my life being projected amongst those of Justin Timberlake, the Kardashians, and even the Biebs. They'll probably dismiss these stories as mere delusions, and honestly I don't blame them. I'll probably be locked up in the psychiatric ward of a mental hospital by this point, anyways.

Well I don't expect my fame to last much longer than approximately 0.32 seconds, but hey it's been a great ride. Keurig Girl out, homies. See y'all on Ellen.

((Also hi, sidenote: check out the links if you want the full, non-bullet pointed stories. They're probably more interesting than my odd ramblings anyways.))

My Future.

Wrapping my mind around the future has always been a bit of a struggle for me. Where will I be ten years from now? What will my life look like? Who will I be? When it comes to finding the answers to these questions, I most represent Velma blindly digging through the dirt trying to find her glasses. But recently, I had an epiphany.

While on a family trip to Six Flags, I saw my future self in the flesh. I recognized my reflection in a glistening layer of sweat covering the body of a 500 pound man unable to clasp the restraining device on a roller coaster. I can't even begin to describe the range of emotions I felt upon laying eyes on him. It was as if I was meeting my long lost twin for the first time. For storytelling purposes, I have named my mysterious counterpart "Jason."

Jason did some serious squeezing in an attempt to click that safety belt, but it obviously wasn't going to work. Imagine trying to turn a baby sock into a unitard. It's just not gonna happen. When the coaster attendant told Jason he was going to have to leave, he wasn't phased. He nonchalantly sauntered off into the distance, munching on a cinnamon pretzel and sipping a large slushie. Jason didn't care that a heart attack was inevitably in his near future. He didn't let this dissuade him from pursuing his passion. This brief encounter with my soulmate left me a changed woman.

It's no secret that I eat a lot. I have an unnatural obsession with food. When my metabolism slows down, it won't take long for me to turn into a stick of butter. But seeing Jason gave me hope. Jason let me know that there is in fact a sugary, pretzel-shaped light at the end of the tunnel.

Picture this: It's the Homewood High School Class of 2014 30th reunion. Everyone is chatting and pretending like they're having a good time, when suddenly a wrecking ball slams through the wall. Amongst the screams of startled guests, a slight whirring can be heard approaching. Almost heroically, an insanely overweight whale woman breaks through the billowing cloud of sheetrock riding a motorized wheelchair, her layers of fat pouring over the sides and dragging the ground. Someone mutters, "Is that Madison Collins?" Yes. Yes it is.

Some may render me a pessimist, but I call it realism. I have chosen to accept my future as the 500 pound woman. Step aside, Tracy Turnblad. You ain't got nothin' on me. *drops mic*

Middle School.

Pretty much everyone I know complains that their middle school days were the worst of the worst. Full of braces, ugliness, and just plain awkwardness, I don't think they treated anyone well. But I can promise you this: No one's days in middle school- NO ONE'S- can top the tremendously horrible nature of mine.

Reason #1: I looked like the vomit of a decomposing squirrel. I think this picture speaks for itself. No explanation needed.

Reason #2: Believe it or not, I was even more socially awkward than I am now. Let's take a brief journey back in time to the infamous Homewood Middle School 7th grade Winter Dance. As Taylor Swift's "Love Story" began to play, I anxiously looked around the room, waiting for my true love to approach me and ask me to dance. My love never came. Completely devastated and convinced that I would be forever alone, I forced my way through dozens of slow-dancing couples and retreated to the corner of the cafeteria. That's when I laid my eyes upon The One. I fell in love with him the moment I saw his long, skinny body propped up against the wall. His luscious, gray locks, still wet from a shower, beckoned me closer. As I moved towards him, I caught a whiff of his cologne; it smelled like bathroom cleaning products. Caught in a trance of love, I cut to the chase. "Do you want to dance?" I whispered to the....the.... mop. Yes, I slow-danced with a mop. It happened. We're moving on now.

Reason #3:  As you can tell from the photo above, I was up to date on all of the latest fashion trends. I am at a loss for words. One day in 6th grade, I was walking down the hall with one of my friends. Wearing cargo shorts and Birkenstocks, I was definitely dressed to impress. Suddenly, she blurted out, "Do you ever look at someone and think WHAT are they wearing?!" "Yeah," I replied, "totally..." Then she stopped dead in her tracks, looked me in the eyes, and said "I was talking about you, Madison. I was talking about you." I burned my prized Birkenstocks that night. Many tears were shed over their death.

Reason #4: I wore my volleyball spandex down to my knees. No, my entire team did not do this. Yes, it was just me. I was made fun of, yet I still persisted to stretch them to a length equivalent to that of a 65 year old Amish woman's skirt. No picture of this will be provided, for it might burn holes into your retinas.

Reason #5: Bad luck followed me everywhere I went. Since we were just on the topic of volleyball, I'll use an according example. It was the biggest game of the year, and all of the 7th grade football players had come to watch our game after their practice. While other girls were making sure to bend down to tie their shoes right in front of the boys, I was pulling my spandex further down to my ankles. In this game, my coach had me starting as the middle hitter/blocker. With my 1'9 frame, I was obviously the perfect fit for the position. As the whistle blew, the other team served the ball to us, my teammate passed the ball to the setter, and the setter prepared to set the ball to me. The boys were cheering. My heart was pounding. I thought to myself I'M GOING TO KILL THIS BALL AND ALL OF THE BOYS WILL LOVE ME. Gotta love my optimism. As the set was put up into the air, I began my approach. I jumped into the air and lifted my arms to swing through... Aaaaand I missed. I swung at the air, the volleyball hit me in the head, and I fell on the ground. Everyone laughed. The boys booed. I got taken out of the game. It was mortifying. Needless to say, none of the football players fell in love with me that night. Or any night in middle school. Or ever.

The Great Plunge.

Q: What do you do when your lunch box ends up in the toilet? 

Yes, you heard me right. My lunch box took a rather unfortunate swim. It was another one of those days... are you even surprised? I had already spilled coffee all over my books, completely bombed a test, and fallen asleep in class. Yippee. I thought to myself, "Hey, it can only get better from here!" Wrong.

I was in a hurry. I had only one mission: quickly use the restroom and then bolt to class. Determined to be on time, I power walked to the bathroom with my 102 pound backpack straddling my spine and my lunch box swinging from my fingers. In a rush, I violently flung open the stall door and hurled my backpack to the ground. As I did this, however, my hand muscles decided to conveniently unclench just as my lunch box dangled over The Pit of Doom. 

I watched, horrified, as my lunch box slowly spiraled downward. I cringed as I heard the splash and watched the light pink fabric quickly darken to purple. "WHAT DO I DO?!" I shrieked as I stared at the sopping blob that continued to sink further into the seemingly never-ending well. I faintly recall hearing the distant cheers of whole grain goldfish as they dove into the flushable aquarium. Finally, I shooed the sewer rats out of the way, plunged my hand into the septic tank, and retrieved the toxic mass. As the minute bell rang, I abandoned my hopes of using the restroom and, utterly defeated, trudged to class with a dripping disease-box (identified by the CDC as the root of a potential outbreak) in hand.

A: You ignore the fact that the food you are about to ingest has spent time where others have... you know...

Yes, you heard me right. I ate my lunch. I was mocked. I was ridiculed. I was probably labeled Poop Girl. But I was hungry, and I wanted my yogurt, dangit. I mean, all of my food was sealed in plastic bags, and my peanut butter sandwich only slightly smelled of urine (I'm kidding).. So I'm good, right? Maybe? No? I'll let you know if I contract any diseases.

R.I.P.

Just One of Those Days.

Today was just one of those days. 

You know what I'm talking about. One of those days. We've all had them. The only problem is this: I experience those days pretty much 5 out of 7 days a week. 4 if I'm really lucky. Here's just a snippet of a "normal" day in the life of Madison:

6:00 am My alarm begins to sound. I, still completely and utterly asleep, somehow manage to turn off my phone and chunk it across the room. All while still sleeping. (I will later have no recollection of these events ever happening.)  I'm convinced that with these skills, I could disable a bomb in my sleep. I'm clearly gifted.
6:35 am My mother bangs down my door with the force of a thousand stampeding buffalo. She screeches into my ears, "ARE YOU AWAKE?!" I mumble back a "yes" and begin to (slowly... very slowly) lift my body out of bed. As soon as my mother turns her back and leaves, I plop back onto the pillow like a rock and immediately fall back asleep.

6:50 am I finally wake up and get in the shower. 

6:54 am I fall out of the shower. I bring the curtain down with me. I do not know how this happened. 

7:48 am I screech into the school parking lot 2 minutes before the tardy bell rings. (3rd tier REPRESENT.) I grab my stuff and begin to sprint down the Great Wall of China stairs leading to Homewood High School. I trip on stair 4,325 and tumble all the way down to stair 1,619. My boots now look like they have been mauled by a bear. 

8:44 am The minute bell rings as I casually stroll into my Physics class. I begin to head to my seat, but some weasel kid is already sitting there. I utter, "What the..." as I begin to realize that I recognize no one in the class. At the sound of my voice, every student swivels their head around and stares at me as if I am vermin. One kind soul shouts, "YOU'RE IN THE WRONG CLASS, IDIOT." Still confused, I stand rooted in place like a deer in headlights for a good 20 seconds trying to comprehend what's going on. Are we running on a different bell schedule? How did I not get the memo that the schedule changed? Am I being Punk'd? Finally, I realize where I'm supposed to be and begin to sprint through the halls faster than Usain Bolt could ever dream of running. I bust into Calculus class .00001 seconds before the bell rings. You can applaud now. Thank you.

All of this happened before 9 am.

Please recognize that this is just a mere fraction of the many unfortunate things that happen to me on a daily basis. The world is clearly out to get me. Actually, I take that back. The world has already gotten me.  

Yoga.

It all started with the Bird Squat. 

Actually it didn't. I'm getting ahead of myself. Anyways, I'm always up for trying new things, but when one of my friends-YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE- asked me to go to a yoga class, I was a little hesitant. Anything that deals with balance, coordination, silence, seriousness, etc. is typically NOT my cup of tea and generally ends quite terribly. But, despite the fact that my brain was screaming "Don't go! Stay home and eat ice cream instead!"… I went. This could have possibly been the worst decision of my life.

I knew I was in the wrong place when I first entered the room. I was greeted by fumes that smelled roughly like the offspring of sweaty gym socks and a corpse. Or maybe it was just a corpse wearing sweaty gym socks. The world may never know. The only other guest in the room was an old, obese man. When 3 of my friends and 2 other normal-ish looking girls entered the room, I began to feel a little bit better. I thought to myself, "Maybe this won't be too bad after all!" I was wrong. Very, very wrong.

Imagine this:

The yoga room is dimly lit. "Relaxing" music is playing in the background. The instructor is talking in a soft, soothing voice telling us to get into positions such as Sun God, Moon God, Wind God, Fire God, something involving a Dog… (anyone know who names these things?) I look around and everyone is balancing and getting in their zen or something. I'm just sitting there thinking, "What the heck am I doing here?"

To give you a better picture, this is everyone else in the class:

This is me (and Old Man):

And here comes the Grand Finale. Instructor Lady (barely audibly) whispers, "Now we're going to move into Bird Squat. Some of you beginners might find this a bit challenging.." (Beginners= me and Old Man, just incase there was any doubt in your head.) Everyone around me begins to contort their bodies into an unnatural position involving placing your knees into your biceps and somehow managing to hold all of your body up with only your wrists. It looks a bit like what Mr. Pro is doing in that picture above. Get this: I DID IT. But only for roughly .0002 seconds before losing my balance, flopping over onto the mat, and busting into uncontrollable laughter. Apparently laughing is frowned upon in yoga? Who knew? Everyone in the room whipped their heads around and glared at me as if they wanted to burn me at the stake as a witch. Then Instructor Lady whispers again (Note to readers: have a hearing aid implanted before attending your first yoga class.) "And now we're going to transition into Happy Baby." This involves spreading your legs like you're giving birth and rolling around on the floor like a roly poly. When I did this… The unthinkable happened… Yes… I farted. After this quite embarrassing conclusion to the already awkward class, I started laughing even harder. Then every member of the class shooed me out of the YMCA and chased me down Highway 31 with pitchforks and flaming torches. Okay that last part didn't really happen. But needless to say, I'm never going back. 

Hi.

Greetings! 

I'm Madison, and this is a blog devoted entirely to the utterly unfortunate and oftentimes comical occurrences that my life is comprised of. This may or may not be the worst blog you've ever read. I'm not making any promises.

Things you should probably know about me:

1. If you haven't already guessed, (hence the title of this blog…) I'm awkward. Like really, miserably awkward. Most people experience a brief "awkward stage" during their adolescence, but I've been waiting on my awkward stage to end for over 17 years now. I expect the people in charge of the Guinness World Record Book to show up on my front porch any day now and crown me as Queen of the Awkward.

2. I'm probably considered by most to be weird... My hobbies include singing karaoke via SnapChat and pretending I am Beyonce, stalking people on social media, telling weird stories that people probably don't want to hear, etc. I'm completely normal, I promise.

3. I am deathly afraid of talking on the phone. And feet. My other phobias include, but are not limited to, the words "panties," "patty," and "crusty." If you're searching for an easy way to irritate me,  create a sentence involving all of those words. I will end you.

4. I. Can't. Stop. Laughing. It's true. It's a medical condition. Actually it's not. I just laugh a lot (and it's often at very inappropriate times). I'm the kind of person who will accidentally start snickering if you tell me your cat was just run over by a car. I'm really sorry. 

So there you have it. It's probably best if you run far away from this blog without ever looking back. (Actually plz don't, I have funny stories I want to share.) Deuces.